The Less We Are
by The Archimedes Complex
Summary: Once the war ended they would never have to see one another again. If only it was that simple...
1. Chapter 1

The war was over. In the battle for the Gravel Pits, the Reliable Excavation Demolitions team had finally dominated the Builders League United hold on the land. Whether it was down to the final massacre of the enemy mercenaries or the fact Blutarch Mann had slipped into a coma no one really knew, and frankly no one really cared. Without further ado Redmond Mann was declared the rightful owner of the long disputed pit. The land was his. They had won.

Seeing no further need to keep them, Redmond signed the order for the discharge of his own team of mercenaries. Contracts would be severed the moment they left the state of New Mexico. They were paid in full and released under the condition that they were not to contact Mann co. ever again. That couldn't be stressed enough.

The Medic hadn't originally planned to stay as long as he had, but the minute he arrived it became very clear he was never going to find a better situation for his work. The infirmary had been wonderfully stocked with every tool a surgeon could possibly need with a most obedient set of staff at hand, and he knew for a fact that war always made for the best test subjects.

That was seven years ago. Had it really gone already? The doctor brushed his hand over the bed of one of the gurneys with a fond smile. He was going to miss this theatre. His new post was going to look much different.

After receiving the news of their severance he had thought about returning to Germany, but that simply wasn't an option. There were... reasons he had defected from his homeland, going back would not be wise. No, instead he pulled a few strings with old colleagues and secured himself a prominent position as the new Chief Medical Officer at Moorcliffe Asylum for the Criminally Insane. He'd be in charge of the people no one cared for and no one wanted, two of the most important qualities that test subjects needed to have. He'd be free to exercise his practice as he saw fit with an abundance of fresh specimens. It was, for lack of better word, perfect.

The nurses bustle round, collecting their things and taking the last notes on inventory. He packs up what's left of his reports and folds up his uniform, taking one final look at the place that let him thrive for nearly a decade. Yes he was going to miss this theatre. He wants to relive every scream, every amputation, every experimental mishap that led to this day... but now's not the time to reminisce! He needs to catch the train that will take him to his much bigger and brighter stage.

* * *

Mikhail can't stop thinking about his family. All day long the thought of being re-united with his sisters and his mother has run through his head. He stands at the crowded train platform with his ticket firmly in hand. Waves of people push past him, engineers, demomen, soldiers all of them ready to leave and be done with this place. Mikhail was with them. He didn't actually think he'd be glad for the war to be over, his passion for the fight was almost second to none, trumped only by the love he had for his family. The money he had earned was going to keep them safe for a long time to come, and that sent a warm feeling through his chest. It wouldn't be long now.

The train pulled in and he jostled with the rest of the men for his place at the doors. Over the commotion he hears a voice call out,

"Chekhov!"

He turns to see a woman in purple frantically scanning the sea of people and shouting at the top of her lungs. She looks familiar. "Mikhail Chekhov!"

Confused he turns back and shoves through the crowd towards her.

"I am Chekhov." He replies, she looks up at him and almost jumps back with the shock of his size. He's not offended, merely used to it.

"Mikhail Chekhov, Heavy Weapons Expert?" She checks against the form she has clutched in her hand.

"Da. Am about to leave, have forgotten something?" He can see the train doors slide open and people begin filing into the carriages.

"You need to come with me. There's been an accident."

His heart sinks a little. Suddenly the smiling faces of his sisters and mother are stricken by pain and fear. It chills him to the core.

"Something has happened to my family?" The woman shakes her head and fixes the glasses that have been sitting lopsided on her face.

"Not exactly." She says, ushering him away from the platform

"Slava Bogu!" he breathes, relief swelling in his chest.

"It's your combat partner."

Mikhails brow furrows in confusion. He wasn't aware he had a combat partner. The woman raises and eyebrow at him and speaks slower "Your com-bat part-ner."

"Nyet, I know meaning. But is not term I am familiar with."

She scans the document and frowns as she looks for more information.

"Viktor Roth?" She says hopefully. He racks his brain, but it doesn't sound familiar.

"Am knowing no-one by that name."

She sighs and hands him the document in her charge. "He's been involved in an accident."

He looks through the lines of writing trying to find a word he can understand. Reading never was his strong point, reading in English he struggled with even more. He finally found one word he could read but he immediately wished he hadn't.

Medic.

"The Doctor?"

The woman nodded.

He practically flung the paper back at her and stormed away. "Is not my problem." He snarls viciously. The train was ready to leave, all the doors were closing and the conductors were beginning to give their final signals.

"You don't have a choice!" She called. "You're bound by the contract."

"Nyet! Contract is over. I go now." He shouts.

"The contract isn't severed until you leave the state. If you leave now without fulfilling the designated duties you will be in violation of your employment." He could barely understand her but it didn't matter. Nothing she could say would sway him.

"Do not care."

"You wont be paid!"

Almost nothing.

He stops in his tracks and swings around.

"You are not serious." She shrugs helplessly.

"Mann Co. doesn't make jokes."

He needs the money, it's the only reason he left his family in the first place. It was for them, every last penny. After the gulags he promised that he would never let any harm ever come to them again. He neededto keep them safe. He'd _promised_.

"Can no-one else do this?"

She shakes her head.

"I'm sorry Mikhail, but the contract is binding."

This wasn't happening.

The whistles screeching behind them are calling for all last passengers. He has to go. Now.

"This is last train to docks. I am leaving on boat in four hours. I cannot help you."

"If you don't, you will have spent four years here for nothing." She said flatly.

Mikhail had never begged in his life but right now he was seriously considering it.

But she was right. He couldn't return empty handed. Not after everything they'd been through already.

He had no choice.

With a defiant growl he crushed the ticket in his hand and headed back towards the tiny woman.

"Fine. We go."

She gave him an almost sad smile and lead him to the cab she had waiting by the entrance. "I'll explain everything on the way."

He hunched himself inside and closed the door just as the conductor's whistle blew and the train slowly pulled off.

He had survived through thick and thin; been beaten, shot, even tortured, all for the sake of the lump sum RED had promised him. And now he was going to be stuck here all on account of ... _that_ man? Anger didn't even cover it.

"Where to now miss?" The driver called back. She slams the door and quickly checks the document.

"Saint Bartholomew's Hospital, Critical Care Unit."


	2. Chapter 2

Combat Partner. The two words loop round in his head until they loose all meaning to him.

"We tried to contact his family, the only problem is that the people he's listed don't seem to exist." The woman explains as the cab zips through the town Mikhail thought he had left behind. "The addresses are fake, the local medical facility doesn't know him, and there's no known record of his admittance to the university he claims to have qualified from." She lets out a frustrated sigh and steadies herself as the cab takes a sudden left. "It wouldn't surprise me if 'Vicktor Roth' was a mere alias. He probably defected here to escape the war-"

"Good for him. What has this to do with me?" It's near impossible to keep the scorn from seeping into his voice. The purple woman winces at his tone.

"Well, you see, that's where the lines are blurred. Really, the 'Combat Partner' operative was just to ensure the protection of the medical teams out on the field. In terms of investments they were the most valuable, what with all their training and equipment. The insurance was practically impossible to organise, you'd never believe just how much paperwork needs pushing behind the organisation of a war- "

"Am still not seeing why I am here." He growls, his impatience of the long-winded explanation grating on his nerves. She quickly scans through the document in her charge for the hundredth time.

"Several Defence classes were specifically assigned to work beside the Medical teams in order to provide them with additional protection. It would seem that you were drafted in after the Heavy Weapons Expert previously assigned to Medic Roth was killed in action. You took his place so to speak."

"Was never told any of this." He grumbles and tries to keep his balance as the car swerves again.  
"Well now you know. Actually the title doesn't really warrant much on paper,

but the contract is legally sound. So, by technicality, you're his only legal contact." She lays the paper down on her lap and pinches at her brow. He hadn't taken the time to notice the dishevelled state of her hair, or the large grey bags mostly concealed by her glasses. It seemed she was just as tired and ready to quit as the rest of them. "Basically, with regards to anything concerning his welfare it now falls to you. "

Mikhail snorts with disdain and mutters a curse under his breath.

"What must I do?"

"I can't imagine it will be too strenuous on your part, probably just signing off on tests they'll run and maybe co-signing his discharge." She pulls down the hem of her skirt and throws him a cautious glance. "You really don't seem to care much for him, do the two of you have... history?"

It was a question that Mikhail had managed largely to avoid till now. Tensions between himself and the Doctor had been brought to light during his time at RED more than once, usually after he refused to be healed by the Medic out on the field or declined a well needed visit the infirmary. Every time he'd merely shrugged it off and joked to the team that he didn't need their tiny, baby medicine. It was a lie of course. There had been times on the front where he'd have given almost anything to have the hot, crippling bite of shrapnel removed from his body, or to feel an Ubercharge's powers of invincibility coursing through his veins. But if it meant submitting to _that _man, then he'd have rather have thrown himself headfirst into a pit of rabid bears.

Medic knew exactly what he had done, and the silent, sarcastic smirks he threw Mikhail whenever they had passed one another in the base was all the understanding their situation warranted. He could have said something to his superiors, but Mikhail wasn't as stupid as so many seemed to assume. He knew full well that any revelation of his situation could trigger a much bigger, uglier rift within the team, and as much as he hated Medic, he couldn't deny that they had needed him. Without the God-given workings of the Medigun, he doubted the team would have survived as long as they had. If only they knew what dark, twisted motives lurked beneath that glorious beam of medicinal light... Nevertheless, he wasn't going to risk putting his comrades in jeopardy by turning them against the Doctor, all to simply to entertain his pride. Instead, he had glazed over the pain, fought like everyday were his last and refused outright to offer comment on his behaviour for the last four years.

Though it wasn't like he'd been given much choice.

"Is bad man." He settles on, flatly.

"Oh?" The woman hums, tilting her head and reminding him a little too much of his over inquisitive sister.

"Is. Bad. Man." He repeats, pointedly this time. "That is all you need to know." The steely threat in his tone is clear – this conversation is over.

She rolls her eyes at him and sits back in her seat, seemingly unfazed by the warning. He thinks that perhaps he is loosing his touch, but the cab slows for a moment and when Mikhail looks up he can see the drivers eyes in the rear view mirror are bulging with fear. He's almost forgotten they're not alone.

The rest of the journey is spent in silence. When they finally pull up to the hospital the cab driver nervously takes the woman's payment and zips away before Mikhail has a chance to fully shut the door.

The nurse at the front desk looks up from her paperwork and gives Mikhail a slow, wary look before the purple woman thrusts the document under her nose, ordering her to give them the location of Doctor Roths room. Without taking her eyes off Mikhail, she hesitantly directs them to room 104 in a unit at the opposite side of the building. The purple woman turns on her heel and marches off with Mikhail in tow, neither of them bothering to thank her.

Figures clad in hospital gowns shuffle passed them, attached like puppets to their IV stands and oxygen tanks. The wards are lined with bodies, and Mikhail swears that each one he sees looks sicklier and paler than the last. The air is thick with their moans and coughs, but the further they move through the building, the more human groans are replaced by the beep of machines and the hiss of ventilators.

Up till now Mikhail had never actually stopped to think what the problem might have been concerning the doctor. He reasoned it could be illness or maybe a car crash, but a small voice jeering at the back of his head is hoping for something much worse. Something that will have made the doctor suffer. Something crippling, debilitating and humiliating. Something he _deserved_.

So when they finally reach room 104 and push the door open, he has to try very, very, very hard not to laugh.

He almost doesn't recognise him. The limp and seemingly lifeless figure of the once proud man is propped awkwardly up on the bed, a host of tubes roughly lodged in his mouth and protruding from his arms connecting him to various machines; one is pumping air into his lungs with a precise, unnatural rhythm, and another set drains away a colourful array of his bodily fluids. The messy crop of hair drawls down the ragged, unshaven line of his jaw, obscured somewhat by the bandage is wrapped round his head that is blossoming with dark brown stains. His lips are taped to the tube wedged between them; rolls of saliva pool at the corners of his mouth and are rolling down his chin.

Every last detail that Mikhail drinks in sends a warm, content feeling spreading across his chest. He looks more pathetic than he ever could have dreamed.

"Is this him?" The woman asks, pushing her glasses up her nose like she's trying gain some clarity on the situation.

Despite the absent signs of his grim consciousness, there is no question in Mikhails mind. He'd never forget that face.

"Da. Is Medic."

"Well, this... complicates things." The woman frowns, scanning over the scene and trying her best not to gag at the smell of a man who obviously hasn't been bathed in several days. "I'll go and find a doctor. Stay here." She turns to exit the room in a flurry of purple. "And Chekov?" She calls back from the door, "Whatever has gone on between you two, and as much as you may want to, please try not to kill him. The paperwork would be a nightmare." With that, she races back off down the hall.

Alone with the Medic, Mikhail finally lets himself smile. He takes a good look at broken excuse of a man and chuckles.

"Think I am much preferring you this way, Doktor." He mutters quietly, assessing the bouncing lines of the heart scanner. "Am only regretting not putting you here with these." He flexes his hands dangerously close to Medics face, but the only response he gets is of the slow, mechanical rising and falling of his chest. He follows the trail of the tube in his mouth to the ventilator pressing at a tiny bag in a glass case. It's one of the few, fragile machines keeping him alive. He wasn't a Doctor, but he calculates that just by removing just one or two of the plugs keeping the machines on, he could probably end the life of this malicious bastard.

And, if he was quick, still make the six o'clock boat leaving from port that evening.

The idea plays through his mind.

Just one or two plugs. That's all it would take.

He'd pass away quietly, and no one except he would be any the wiser. He'd sign whatever he needed to and get the hell out of there, make the boat and be on his way home to his family.

It would be all be so very, very simple.

_Nyet_. At the last moment he catches himself and snatches back the hand that had unconsciously moved to remove the adaptor from its socket.

This was wrong. There was no honour in taking out his revenge on a helpless target. If he did it this way he'd be no better than the monster lying next to him. Taking advantage of the helpless purely for his own gains... That was a level he was not prepared to sink to. Not yet.

He pushes the dark thought to the back of his mind, just as he hears footsteps marching back down the corridor behind him. He quickly straightens up and moves away from the sockets, trying to disguise his murderous intent as best he could. The door behind him flings open and another, much more lively looking doctor marches into the tiny room.

He stops dead in his tracks the moment he clocks Mikhail.

"What exactly are you doing in here?" He spits, bristling with anger. The vein pulsing in his head and bloodshot eyes can only attest to his rage. For a moment Mikhail wonders if all doctors are inherently prone to being nothing more than fury filled, utilitarian lab coats.

"Have been told to come here to sign for this man I am Mikhail Chekov, Medi- Viktor Roth's 'combat partner.'" The words still taste bitter in his mouth.

"Ah, finally! We were beginning to wonder if anyone was going to come forward to claim him." The doctor snaps, apparently undeterred by Mikhails size or appearance. He unhooks a chart from the edge of his bed and begins to flip through it as he chatters on. "Our usual policy is to hold unclaimed cases for one month before the state intervenes. Seems you got here just in time."

"He has been here for a month?" Mikhail queries. Funny, the woman had never mentioned that.

"Well yes. His record shows that he was checked in on August fifth." He honed in on one specific part of the file and tapped his pen against it. "It seems the Manager of Tuefort train station reported one, adult male to have collapsed at the ticket office, after which he began fitting violently. The staff did what they could but when our team arrived he was unresponsive with a fractured skull and signs of intracranial bleeding. We had no option but to operate as soon as we got him back here." He says, motioning to the bandage wrapped around Medics head.

"Ah, have seen this before." Mikhail rumbles. "Back where I am from, men in positions like him have been poisoned to stop information leaking out. Is not big surprise." The doctors head shoots up from his file and fixes Mikhail with a stare that finally acknowledges him for the size and brutish appearance he boasts.

"Might I ask what kind of...employment you are both involved in?" He probes tapering his words much more carefully now.

"Would not be wise. Not for you." Mikhail replies.

"Well, we checked his system for signs of abnormal substances..." the doctor cautiously continues, flicking back and forth between two pages of the chart. "But the results came back negative."

"Is that meaning I can sign papers for more of your tests and go?" His eyes involuntarily flick to the wall clock behind him. Two - fifty four. If he leaves soon, he could still make it to the port in time.

"I'm afraid not." He says, placing the board back down on the end of the bed and walking over the Medics side. "Unfortunately we've run just about every last test we can do on your friend here, but nothing conclusive has come back. The best we can assume is that the bleeding has caused some form of extensive brain damage, and that's why he's not coming round."

"Alright, is no problem." Mikhail waves off dismissively, his eyes suddenly unable to leave the clock for more than a few seconds at a time. "Am understanding you have done all you can. Am... grateful. Where can I sign?"

"Sign?" The doctor questions, hoisting up one of Medics eyelids and flashing a small penlight across his eye. The pupil shrinks and flares but the Medic does not wake.

"Yes, signing for the discharge." The seconds seem to be ticking away faster and faster. He really has to go.

"Mister Chekov, I'm afraid there's been some kind of misunderstanding." He says hesitantly, reeling back from Medics side and checking the status of the machines at his aid. "Patients cannot just be discharged in states like this once they have been claimed."

"What is that meaning?" He asks. The woman had said all he had to do was sign some documents and then he was free to go. But this all seemed a lot more complicated than she had made it out to be.

The doctor moves back to the chart and scribbles a quick note at the bottom of one of pages, carefully avoiding Mikhails cutting glare as he does so.

"He can only be discharged once he is conscious, even then we would not advise letting him leave until he shows signs of adequate cognitive functioning-"

"When will this be?" Mikhail demands.

The doctor wavers and places the chart back down with a trembling hand. Mikhail really had forgotten just how unconsciously intimidating he could be. The man shifts uncomfortably underneath his glare and suddenly struggles to find his words.

"I'm sorry." He eventually says in a tone that turns the warmth in his chest to ice and forces all of his hopes to come crashing back down to reality. His heart feels like its sinking in his chest, and the sound he had counjured in his head, of his sisters laughing and his mother welcoming him home are drowned out by that single, melancholy apology.

"We just don't know."


	3. Chapter 3

"Here." There purple woman pushes a tiny, plastic cup filled with coffee under Mikhail's nose. "You look like you need this."

He looks up from his spot in the corner of the busy waiting room, and stares at the coffee wordlessly.

"Has vodka in it?" He asks finally. She starts at the question.

"Um... well no, we're in a hos-"

"Am not needing it then."

Six hours he's been waiting, watching each minute drag itself across the clock with nothing to do aside from observe more and more sick and injured civilians bustle inside. As the first hour had ticked away, all he could think about was the boat pulling off from the docks, and the ways and route he could use to still plausibly make it on time. After the fourth hour had elapsed, and the hopelessness of it all finally sunk in, he'd torn up his ticket and hurled it into the bin.

He should have killed the Medic. He should have killed him when he had the chance.

He's stuck here, and the term 'anger' doesn't begin to cover the red-hot loathing filling up his veins.

Had it not been for the fact they were surrounded by a gaggle of people, it would have been no small feat for him to try and drown the purple woman in that cup of foul smelling, American brewed shit they called coffee. Unfortunately, she was a woman. Mikhail did not hurt women, no matter how much they deserved it.

She sighs and sits down next to him, turning the cup round carefully in her hands.

"Have been able to talk to Administration?"

She nods, pushing her glasses up her nose.

"It's not good news."

"Wasn't expecting anything less." He grumbles, running his hands over his head.

"They're tied by the legal restraints of this state as much as you are. We've talked through all the options, but with the dissolution of all the other mercenary contracts, and lack of information on Doctor Roth, there's simply nothing they can do."

"How long for?" He asks, despite knowing her response before she's even opened her mouth.

"Until he comes out of his coma, or is declared dead. But that could be days, weeks, months, even years." The words trail off, but the pitying look she's fixed him with remains. "I'm sorry Mikhail."

He wants to tear this whole damn place apart, brick by brick until he can quell the numbness spreading through his limbs.

"Have possible solution." He mumbles, and the purple woman straightens up. "Could let me pull plug?" She sighs with disappointment and chuckles lightly, only stopping when she sees the deadpan expression set on his face, and realises he's not joking.

They sit in the tense silence he's created for a while, letting the groans of the sick fill up the space around them. The purple woman finally stands up, the coffee in her hands now cold.

"I have to go. Paperwork needs pushing and companies need liquidating." She stalls for a moment, biting her lip as she looks back at him "Will you be alright here?"

He thinks he'll be able to keep it together, just long enough to reach a bar somewhere in this godforsaken town and truly let loose on a few of the locals. He had enough American dollars on him to last a while, but the thought of money hadn't really occurred to him over the last couple of hours, he'd been too absorbed in his anger to think about the actual reason he was even here.

"What will happen about payment?"

"Oh, the payment will be deposited into your account. But I'm afraid the account will be locked, so if you attempt to send it anywhere overseas, or leave the country, the account will be shut down and all payment will return to Mann Co. under the terms of non-compliance."

And he had thought it couldn't be worse.

He would have the cash, but instead of using it to help protect his family, it would be used to ground in America and away from them. He was just as helpless as their vegetable doctor in the next room, if not more so.

The thought must have shown on his face, because in the next moment the purple woman pushes a phone number written on a scrap of paper towards him.

"If you need anything, call this number and ask for Miss Pauling in Logistics. But whatever you do, don't mention Mann co."

He doesn't quite know why he takes it; they've already done enough to ruin his life. But it's too late to hand it back, she's turned and walked away without another word, squeezing past the queue of patients and out of the door before Mikhail has a chance to say goodbye.

Everything feels so jumbled, between trying to think up of a plan, wondering how he'll get home and the smell of cheap disinfectant stinging his nose, he begins to feel queasy.

He doesn't leave until the sick churning in his gut subsides, just as the clock ticks past the eighth hour.

He reasons that he can get a motel in town tonight, and probably stay there until he can find more suitable lodgings. He'll need a job too; the money he's saved is for his family, using it to live here would leave a wound on his conscience.

He also needs to phone his family. That's what he fears most.

There will be questions and tears, confusion and anger, and it will cut him deeper to hear them so close, but know they would be separated indefinitely.

He's been through the wars, figuratively and literally, and never once faltered, but the thought of his mothers disappointed, yet understanding words makes him die a little inside, and he almost feels tears prickle at his eyes in frustration.

That decides it. Before any of this he was going to find a bar, he was going to drink until the guilt stopped plaguing him, or until he had broken so many men's jaws it would be like he was back on the front lines of the gravel pits.

Whichever came first.

* * *

The weeks wear on. Mikhail scours the local papers and eventually finds an apartment that fits his requirements. It's a simple room above a hardware store come garage, not so spacious to be considered extravagant, but a decent size that allows him to move around without bumping into everything. The landlord, and owner of the shop, seems amicable enough.

Unlike many of the other places he visited, this landlord, a stocky grease monkey who owns the shop downstairs, doesn't seem to have a problem with his size or his nationality. He merely gives Mikhail a quick sizing- up before quoting a fair monthly price, and a strict 'no pets allowed' policy. It was a god-send, he'd been lucky if he'd even be offered a jacked up figure with many of the other places, one look at him alone was enough to warrant them slapping another one hundred dollars on the asking price, like letting him stay was going to cost them more than the average American Joe. But even Mikhail's pride had a price.

It definitely feels like the 'big bad commie' stereotype has spread around these parts of America faster than the plague. He doesn't blame them; he was no fan of the communists either, if anything he has more reason to hate them than any of the people on the street who glare at him as they walk by.

His family's escape from the Gulag had been nothing short of miracle, but there were only so many miracles they could live on. To truly get out from the communists claws they'd fled east to the desolate Siberian mountains, where the winters were more brutal than any war he had fought in, and the closest neighbours they had for miles were the bears and wolves roaming the forest. But he preferred bears and wolves to communist fighters with armloads of guns and promises of the Gulags any day.

It wasn't a perfect plan, now that his sisters are older they're starting to crave independence, and keeping them out of society will only do them good for so long. He'd rather walk through the fires of hell themselves than have his little sisters despise him for keeping them locked away from the world. No, he was going to find a way to give them a real, protected life, even if it meant fighting for blood money in this strange, western country.

Even so, when he starts asking around for jobs, many people flinch the second they hear the tang of his accent, and regard him with a blind fear all the same.

After finding the apartment, he'd registered his address and phone number with the Hospital, preparing for the slight chance that Doctor Roth would wake up. He was to be alerted immediately, first and foremost, that part he couldn't stress enough.

On his way back, he picks up a train timetable and buys a calendar marking the next boats leaving from nearly every port dotted along the Arizona coast heading to Russia. They were mainly trade and cargo vessels, but that didn't matter, he was sure he could bribe a worker to sneak him on board. He'd sleep in a crate for a year if it meant getting back home. He pins the two on his wall, and prepares a bag of essentials under his bed; clothes, rations, papers, money, anything he'd need to leave the country in a hurry.

He wasn't going to waste a second more than was necessary in this place.

He calls home everyday, without fail. The first call had been hard, he'd had a bottle of vodka ready and waiting for him the moment he'd put the phone down. It hadn't been as bad as he'd thought, the girls were upset but they seemed to handle it well. The connection was bad, and it had been hard to even say hello at first, but once he explained they merely said how happy they were that he was alive and how proud they were of him. Only Yana seemed truly upset, even through a thousand miles of telephone wire he could hear the door slam as she ran out of the room. She was strong, but she was still young, there was only so much he could expect her to be able to handle. It hurt, but with any luck, he'd get to make it up to her. Someday.

The search for work isn't as successful as the lucky break on the apartment. He searches for nearly two weeks for a job, but the reputation he's built following the bar fights comes back round to bite him hard. He looks for construction work, heavy lifting and labour, something where his size would give him an advantage. Unfortunately, this work attracts the same kind of men in the area, even to the degree they like to drink and get in fights. At the lumber mill he was spotted from the get go by a particularly bruised up and battered guy with a snarl that stretched a mile wide.

"The fuck is this Russkie doin' here? Get outta' here, you piece of shit commie." He was more than willing to debate the point further with his fists, but the minute he was joined by ten other similarly beaten looking colleges he thought the better of it. Thwarting these men again would do nothing to aid his status in this town, something he was going to have to remedy if he really was stuck here for the long term. He was strong, not stupid.

After the second, unsuccessful week he was about to head off through town to find a new bar that wouldn't throw him out on sight, when his landlord spotted him and waved him over from the front from the shop.

"Couldn't lend us a hand here, mate?"

Mikhail followed him through to shop to a garage out the back, the place was littered with piles of scrap metal and tool boxes, and for a moment he could have sworn he was stood in the RED Engineers workshop back on the base.

"Having a mite of trouble fixing this up." He throws a thumb in the direction of the large, rusted tractor sitting in the bay, missing all but one of its tires. "Been trying all day to get the wheels on this thing, trouble is I can't find any way to keep 'em from fallin' over and crushin' me. Managed to get one of the smaller ones on, but the bigger ones just aint the most stable things in the world."

Mikhail nods and stretches out his back.

"Da, If you guide, I move them."

The tyres are twice his size, and the weights are already inside making it more difficult to balance, nevertheless it takes Mikhail all of ten minutes to move them into place. The landlord lets out a long, low whistle of appreciation and mops his brow.

"Tell yah what, you got some hella' guns on you there son."

"Should have seen guns in previous occupation. Much bigger, much better." He replies, thinking of Sasha, his wonderful old Minigun. Though he doubts those are the kinds of guns his landlord is talking about. The landlord grins and offers him up a single, dirty hand.

"You know, I don't think I properly introduced myself. I'm Jack, Jack Malone."

He takes the hand, all but swaddling it inside his own massive palm, and shakes it with a smile.

"Mikhail Chekov." He replies.

"Can I offer you a brew Mikhail? To say thanks and all."

He doesn't give him the chance to accept before he's diving round in an old ice-box hooked up to a generator at his side, and offering a cold bottle back to Mikhail.

He doesn't quite know how many they get through between them, but when he next looks up the stars are out above them and makeshift table Jack has pulled up for them is littered with bottles and caps. Jacks a talker, and has told him pretty much everything there is to know about himself. His family came over from Ireland a few generations back, set up shop in New Mexico and that's where he's been ever since. He tells stories about his time round here that have Mikhail bent double in laughter, and he returns them with some of his own from his time at RED. Eventually he tells him about how his situation really has come to pass, about the man in the coma who's keeping him from his home. Jack sucks at his teeth and calls the whole thing 'a shitshow', reassuring Mikhail that he'll ask his wife, who works down at the hospital, to check on his progress regularly.

It's strange how much such a simple encounter rakes away the frustration that had been clogging up his thoughts, almost like he's forgotten what it's like to really talk to someone about something other than battle tactics and weapon loads. Sure, he had friends back at RED, but non-quite as jovial or light-hearted at Jack. Perhaps this is how civilians lived. Happily.

"Say, Mikhail-"

"Call me Misha." As much as it's a gesture of friendship, it also saves him from telling Jack he's been pronouncing it wrong. Jack grins and raises his bottle to him.

"Alright then Misha, I got a proposition for you." He chugs the bottle back and reaches for another. "You seem like you know your stuff, you got experience from these Reliable Excavation company dirtbags, what say you help me out round here, you know with the shop and all."

"Doing what? Can hardly be of much use inside tiny shop with all your little, baby tools."

"Well, we do need muscle round in the bay. Working with the cars and engines would be much less hassle if we had an extra pair of extra strong arms around. Sides, we could take the payment off your rent and give you a little extra for living, would definitely be cheaper than hiring any of the regular goons about town. Whaddaya say?" He offers Misha another beer, and suddenly a great pressing weight lifts from his shoulders. It would be simple work, but good and honest all the same, a far cry from the chaos of war that paid him with blood money. He'd have been a fool not accept.

"Da." He grins, accepting the beer. "Would be pleasure to work for you."

Jack laughs and clinks his bottle to Misha's.

"Don't go speaking to soon, beneath this deceptively easy-going exterior I can be a true slave driver."

"Believe me, have worked under much worse."

He hasn't felt this calm in a while, probably not since he first got news of the Medics accident. It has been pitfall after pitfall, but now maybe it was all about to come together. Then again, maybe that was just the beer talking.

"So tell me." Jack says again, setting his giant work boots up on their table "Who's this Sasha dame you keep mentioning? She sounds like a real quick-fire girl."

* * *

The work is just as simple and honest as he expects. Jack was no liar, his workload is tough. He's a human fork-lift truck, hauling mounds of stock around and clearing up the mountains of scrap left about the yard. A few times he's asked to pull a car round into the bay, once even a bus, and is asked to take a look at the mechanics (They're not guns, but the principles work the same to an extent). It's gruelling, backbreaking work, but there's a feeling contentment settled in his chest when he shares a brew with Jack at the end of the day that he never felt back at RED, something that helps keep his mind from wondering if the Medic is ever going to kick the bucket and helps the weeks slip by.

One night, after a particularly hectic few days in the summer sun, Jack grills up a feast and invites Mischa to eat with his family.

He discovers two things that night. The first is that Jack has an incredibly beautiful wife, Sally, and three even more adorable daughters, all of which remind him of his own sisters back home. Their little eyes bulge and they scream in delight as they set their eyes on Mikhail, asking him how he got so big and to give them rides on his shoulders. He plays and laughs with them as Jack cooks with one arm snaked around his woman, and by the time it's ready to eat the girls are already squabbling over who will get to sit on his lap. The second thing he learns that night is that he really, _really, _likes barbeque.

As the night wears on, the girls slowly begin to nod off, nestling themselves into Mikhails arms like chicks in a nest. He chats and laughs with Jack and his wife in the cool night air for a while longer, until Sally eventually calls it a night and tries to pull the girls away from Misha. He offers to carry them back to their house, she thanks him and watches protectively as his arms form a cradle and he carries the sleeping doves to bed, and bids them all goodnight.

When he gets back to his own his own home, it hits him suddenly that tonight was the first time he's truly felt like he's belonged in this strange western world. He hasn't been leered at, hasn't been made fun of, hasn't had to break any mans nose in months. For the first time, it's like he's part of a family, it's like he's home, and the prospect of being stuck here indefinitely no longer sits on his shoulders like the weight of the universe.

As far as bad situations went, he feels like he's making the best of it. Of course, thoughts of his own family haunt him, but he calls them everyday to make sure they are safe, and is doing everything in his power to keep tabs on the Medics condition.

But he's at peace, and after months of anxiety and anger, he's finally beginning to see that life might not be the hell he had expected in this quiet desert town.

The thought lets him drift off to sleep with a smile on his face, and a head full of happy dreams.

Then comes the call.

The shrill ring of the telephone startles him so much he practically falls out of bed. It takes him a moment to figure out what's going on through the sleepy fog clouding his head, before squinting towards the clock on his bedside table and groaning. Who calls at 4 am? It had better not be Jack forgetting the keys at the shop again, it's the third time this week! He fumbles for the receiver.

"You are realising that it is four in morning, da?" he grumbles, rubbing his eyes with one giant hand.

"I'm sorry sir," Comes an unfamiliar voice at the other end of the line "but we were given explicit instructions to inform a Mister Che... check ... Chekov, of any changes in wellbeing!" It's a woman speaking, and she's breathless at that, but through his sleep-addled brain nothing is adding up.

"Who is this? What changes?" He mumbles.

"This is Nurse Jones, at the Critical Care Unit of Saint Barts."

His heart almost stops dead in his chest, and he's suddenly more awake that he's been in his entire life.

"Doctor Roth is conscious."


	4. Chapter 4

Mikhail isn't built for speed.

Carrying a one hundred and fifty kilogram, super calibre minigun all day, every day, in the heat of a war, has a tendency to build upper body muscle to gargantuan proportions. Is this good for acting as an unstoppable meat shield? Yes. Is this good for individual agility? No.

And yet, it's 4 am and he's barrelling down the city streets faster that a Scout jumped up on a months supply of Bonk!.

He barely left himself time to dress before grabbing the contingency bag, ripping timetables off the wall and hurtling out of the apartment.

The Medic is awake.

That means he can finally be signed off on the waiver holding him here, and after that...

Mikhail is a free man.

He sprints across the desolate streets, taking the quickest route he knows through back alleys and suburban gardens, not stopping until he bolts up the steps of the hospital and practically rips the entrance door off its hinges.

The nurse at the front desk lets out a startled scream when he barges in, followed by a meek 'Can I help you?' that he barely even acknowledges. He launches past her, blindly following the route through the halls towards the doctors room.

His lungs burn, his legs ache, and with a quick look at one of the clocks on the wall he sees he's made it four miles across town in little under twenty minutes.

He arrives at the Doctor's room, adrenalin racing through his veins, and panting like he's about to face an army alone. But when he pushes the door open, he forgets to breathe all together.

There are no less than three lab coats crowded into the tiny room, each man is whispering to one another in hushed tones, and poking strange instruments towards the ragged figure twisted in the sheets on the bed. They pay no attention as Mikhail enters... that is until their patient awkwardly tries to lift his head, and fixes him with a look that suddenly binds him to the spot.

Those eyes.

Those seemingly ordinary, small, grey eyes.

The very same ones that have spent year after year tearing apart his very soul, and sowing in it a new, inescapable breed of fear that has him screaming for mercy in his sleep, more than the bullets, war or Gulags ever could have ...

And they're looking straight through him.

"Viktor?" One of the doctors says loudly, waving a gloved hand in front of his absent gaze. "Viktor, can you hear me?"

The man blinks rapidly, and beneath the coarse, unkempt beard now swamping his features, his lips twitch around the ventilation tube still lodged down his throat. He looks away, his slack jawed gaze wandering aimlessly about the room, almost like he hasn't even registered Mikhail's presence. It's more than can be said for Mikhail.

Just seeing the man awake paralyses him. All the bravado, all the rage, it just shrivels up in his chest and dies in terror.

"Patient is conscious but unresponsive, Viktor?" The Doctor waves his hand again, but again the hand may as well have been made of glass and the Medic stares right through it.

"I'm sorry sir, but you can't be here."

So wrapped up in his fear, he almost doesn't hear the other doctor come over to try and lead him out of the room.

"Am... Chekov..." He croaks. "Mikhail Chekov."

"The Combat Partner?"

"Da." He tries to rid himself of the stupor, and focuses on rummaging through the bag at his side. "Have come to sign off on waiver." He searches for the paper, but the shaking of his hands makes it almost impossible.

"Waiver?" The Doctor queries.

"Is for his wellbeing. I was made guardian. Have come to have document signed for release of charge."

"You can't be serious." He snorts incredulously. "The man's only just come out of a four month coma!"

"Was told to wait for him to wake up. Is awake. Deal is over."

"Well whatever deal you're talking about is far from 'over'. I mean, just look at him!" He shoots a look back his patient. Medic's struggling to keep his bandage covered head up without it lolling forward every few seconds as he slips in and out of consciousness, like some hideous gaunt, bearded baby. The doctor whips back round and glares at Mikhail. "He's in no position for you to relinquish control of his wellbeing. What if there's an emergency? Leaving him like this could very well result in the state having to take charge of him."

"Do it. Sign waiver and let state have him." He finally grabs the paper out of his bag and shoves it forwards. The doctor fumbles with the document and scans it briefly, looking increasingly horrified the more he reads.

"This... this can't be right." He mutters.

"Why not?" Mikhail growls.

"This waiver... it's a transfer assignment to a ... a lobotomy specialist."

The word almost makes Mikhail choke. He knows it well. Too well.

But wait, why would RED have given him the go-ahead to send the Medic off for a lobotomy?

It didn't make any sense.

But then again, he didn't care.

"Okay. Sign it."

The doctor openly gawps at Mikhail's indifference

"Okay? _Okay?_ No, this is far from okay! Do you even understand what a lobotomy is?"

"Da." He snarls. "Is where doctor pushes thick metal spike through inside of mans eye until it is hitting skull. Then doctor stirs to separate frontal lobes from rest of brain. Makes him... obedient, like puppet, taking away all emotion and own will. Makes for best soldier according to Medic, so he will only stop stirring it when man stops screaming, or stops breathing. Whichever comes first-"

He's interrupted by a low, guttural moan as one of the doctors slowly pulls out the several feet of tube wedged down his patient's throat. He splutters and struggles to heave in a breath on his own, and the monitors by his side go wild for a moment, but then return to their rhythmic pace of beeps.

How he wishes they would all just fall silent.

The doctor is looking up at him much more carefully now, like one would as they try to back away from a wild animal.

"That's a very... specific account." He swallows nervously. "Though I doubt your 'Medic', whoever he is, would attest to _actually_ using such ancient methods on healthy patients."

"Go ahead. Ask him. Is lying right there." He points to the bed and watches the doctor visibly pale. The other two lab coats by the Medics side also look uncertain, one of them going so far as to take a step back from the bed.

For a moment, Mikhail thinks he's finally got his free pass. They're looking at the Medic like the monster that he is, like someone deserving of a life that only the hell of a lobotomy can give.

The doctor eventually clears his throat.

"If you do this, so help me god, I will report you to your unit for gross negligence."

A doctor with a conscience. Of course.

This wasn't something he was used to, or expecting for that matter.

But any report to the top could watch him kiss his escape goodbye, and he hadn't come this far just to throw it all away on a whim.

He sighs and folds his arms in defeat.

"How long will this take?" He asks, fully aware that the Medic is beginning to look more and more alert. His eyes begin to squint, almost like he's trying to focus on the world around him.

"Until he regains adequate cognitive function, so talking, communicating, and showing he can cohesively understand . Considering his current rate of improvement, I'd give it at least a day until we know for certain. Full recovery can take up to a week, depending on the extent of the damage he sustained, and assuming we don't run into any complications-"

"Fine." He snatches back the waiver and pulls up a chair from the side of the room. "Will wait."

The fear he initially feels melts away when he watches the Medic flail feebly in the sheets, trying to negotiate his limbs without success.

This isn't the man he's spent four hellish years in fear of. For the time being he looks about as dangerous as a newborn, only more helpless and pathetic.

If he was going to be stuck here on his account, he may as well watch and enjoy the show.

* * *

The morning wears on, and Mikhail doesn't leave the Medics side for a second. He notes every gurgling response made to a noise and each time he tries to look around. The more he does it, the longer his gaze begins to linger on certain things. It a far cry from any form of communication the doctor wants though.

The nurses flitter in throughout the morning, sometimes with the doctors, asking Mikhail vague questions and taking down their patient's progress. After a few hours Medic is beginning to respond to the hand being waved in his face, he tracks it slowly to and fro first with an awkward twist of his head, then more aptly with his eyes. According to the doctor, this is considered 'Good progress.'

To Mikhail, it's taking far too long. He wonders how much longer he'll have to endure at the bastard's bedside, watching every breath he takes with the hope that the next one will come with utterance of a single word. Or even better, just wont come at all.

It's tedious to say the least.

His movements seem to get a little more purposeful, but again Mikhail puts it down to wishful thinking. Even so, he's not flailing around in the bed as much as he was; now he twists and turns like he's trying to push himself up or shift his meagre frame into another position.

At one point, he watches as a drop of sweat beads just under the lip of the bandage wrapped around his head, and trickles down his face.

"Da. Is hot." Mikhail grumbles, feeling just as uncomfortable in the clammy heat that has built up in the tiny room. He reaches up and opens the little window above the bed. A cool morning breeze greets him and he takes a deep, grateful lungful of the fresh air, and when he sits back down, he notices the Medics eyes are now trained on him.

But it's not like before, he doesn't wander off or look through him, the pupils move almost methodically about his frame, taking in whatever they can. For the first time, it's as if he actually see's Mikhail. And that twists at a familiar fear deep inside him.

He needs to go. If the Medic fully comes to his senses and actually see's him there, only god will know who would kill whom first.

He makes a move to leave, but something odd happens.

He hears a moan.

Not like the senseless gurgling he's made up till now, but almost like a whimper of protest. When he looks back, the Medics eyes are wide open, and he's pushed his whole body forward in a futile attempt to follow him.

Mikhail stops, and out of complete bewilderment, slowly settles back down into the chair. The moment he does, Medics whole body relaxes and rests back into the bed, seemingly content.

This was beginning to make less and less sense by the second.

He hated Medic. Medic hated him. These were two mutually universal truths that could have been found under the very definition of 'hatred', in any dictionary, in any language.

What Medic had just done defied at least one of these facts.

He stares at the Medic in confusion, but he does nothing more than return to letting his eyes flit about his massive frame.

He wants the Heavy to stay?

Or more likely, he's coming to and he just doesn't want to be alone.

He tests his theory when a nurse walks in. She begins to check his reflexes and he makes the move to leave once more.

He only manages to get a little way out of his chair when he feels something clamp onto his wrist.

It's a hand. The Medics hand.

"Nnn." He struggles, pursing his lips like he's trying to speak.

Mikhail freezes with astonishment.

"Nnn." He tries again when Mikhail doesn't return to his chair.

"Alright." He mumbles, sliding back to the Medics side. Only when he's sat back down and facing him does he settle back into the sheets.

The nurse smiles fondly at them both.

"He's quite attached to you isn't he? It's a good thing he's showing such promising signs of recovery so quickly. You must be so worried."

Mikhail honestly can't respond. He just nods, trying to make sense of the impossible situation unfolding before him.

Doctor after doctor comes to visit, each greeting Mikhail as amicably as the next and proceeding to pour over the patient. He can hardly count them all there's so many, but not a single one can get the Medic to react the way Mikhail has. It baffles all of them to no extent.

It's getting late in the day, and the afternoon sun light glares through the little window, carrying with it a cruel, dry heat. Mikhail hasn't moved for nearly eight hours, and Medic has barely even blinked in three. He stretches out and reaches for the little jug of water at the bedside, pouring a tiny cup and chugging it down.

Then he pours another.

Medic's eyes grow wide as the paper cup is lifted in front of his face. At first he just stares at Mikhail, then he begins to flit back and forth between him and the cup.

"Drink." Mikhail motions, tipping the cup for Medic to see the contents. "Is water, see? Am not trying to poison you."

Medic tilts his head forward and sips at the water. He only takes a little, but he starts to choke and splutter on it all the same. Mikhail quickly puts the water down and lifts the Medic forward, patting him on the back until the worst of it has passed. It reminds him of caring for his sisters when they were babies, struggling to take milk or choking on bear meat. Although, when he places the fully-grown man that haunts his nightmares back into the bed, he can't help but realise the two scenarios are worlds apart.

"Had forgotten you have not swallowed on your own in many weeks. Will get Doctor." He says wearily.

"No."

It's a breathless and weak response, but it has the Heavy rooted to the spot with shock.

He spoke.

"Medic?" He tests, heart in his mouth. "Or... um... Viktor?"

Underneath the bandage, Mikhail can see his brow furrow in effort. He's trying to move his mouth again and force out a noise, all the while refusing to look anywhere but at him.

"Nn... No." He manages again. It's a struggle, but it's all Mikhail needs.

"DOCTOR!" His shout could easily have carried through the entire hospital. It brings no less than four doctors rushing into the room, and he recognises the one he had argued with that morning.

"Has spoken. Has shown your signs of functioning." The doctor seems stunned and reels around to Medics side. At all the attention, Medic begins to look distressed. He attempts to lean away from all the faces crowding round him, like he's trying to dig back through the bed with his shoulder blades.

"Viktor? Viktor it's all right, calm down. You're okay. You're in the hospital. You had an accident." The doctor soothes.

Medic stays silent, refusing to utter a single syllable.

The doctor regards him sceptically, shooting a look to Mikhail that's clouded with doubt.

"Viktor, can you tell me your last name?"

Instead of answering, he tries to move further over towards Mikhail, eyes wide with fear.

But all Mikhail wants is for him to say something, anything, and walk away with enough time to make it to the docks in Arizona by that evening. And now he knows how to get what he wants.

With that in mind, he pushes the chair away from his bedside, and begins to move away.

"No!" Comes the call, right on queue.

The doctors suddenly chatter excitedly, and start to pull out a host of charts.

That's done it.

He gives the doctor a smug side-glance.

"Can sign waiver now?" The doctor looks from the Medic to him, and then reluctantly nods.

Mikhail reaches into his pocket and pulls out the waiver.

"NO! P-PLEASE!" The sheer desperateness of the cry turns him hollow. He stops in his tracks and spins round to see the Medic reaching out for him, tears turning his eyes wet and his face a mask of unbridled fear.

"Please..." He whimpers. "Please. No."

An old, faded memory of the Gulag needles its way to the forefront of his mind. His sister, his own baby sister, surrounded by guards, reaching out for him with that gut wrenching knowing that if he doesn't somehow take her hand right now, he'll never see her again. And to them both, it's a fate worse than death.

Medic's hand still reaches for him through the lab coats. And it's the Gulag all over again.

It's a fraught, pathetic, helpless gesture, but it's not one he can refuse.

Hardly understanding what he's doing, he marches back over and pushes the doctors aside, practically knocking them over like dominos.

"You are distressing him." He mutters. "Should leave now. Will call you back when he is calm."

The doctor's stare at one another in confusion, the familiar one of which just shrugs with exasperation and motions for them all to file out.

The Medics waiting hand grabs a handful of his shirt and pulls him in close with an iron grip.

"Is alright." He reassures, taking his place back by his side. "Will be okay."

The tears drip down his cheeks all the same.

He refuses to let go of the Heavy's shirt, even when he's sat back down and repeated over and over that he won't try to leave again. When he eventually does, Medic scoots his whole body over and keeps his eyes fixed on him constantly, almost like he's afraid that if he doesn't, he might not be there when he next looks.

It's truly staggering how different the man in front of him is to the one he knew, he can hardly believe they are even the same.

"Am definitely thinking you have hit your head harder than you know." He chatters to him idly. "Will probably both regret this when you are coming round."

Medic says nothing. He simply reaches one clumsy hand up and wipes his hand over his face like a child.

"What if you are like this forever, hmm? Forever like one big, hairy baby. I am thinking this would be funny, da?" He chuckles, mainly to himself. "Have called team babies many time, never actually thought it would come to this."

Medic seems content just to listen to him for a while. He shuffles around as Mikhail talks, trying to move his arms and legs on their own. At one point though he tries to push himself up, but can't quite manage to sit up all the way. Mikhail reaches forward without question and helps to bring him upright, propping the pillows up behind his back to make sure he doesn't slide down.

"Better, da?" The Medic blinks at him a few times, and then slowly nods. "Needing anything? Thirsty maybe? Want to try water again?" He doubts the Medic actually knows what he's saying, but he nods again when he points to the jug. He carefully pours another cup.

"Wh- Wh" Medic stammers, trying to fit his mouth around the words. "Who... who are you?"

The question seems to suck all of the air out the room.

And all of a sudden, a big peace of the impossible puzzle falls heavily into Mikhail's lap, along with the jug full of water he's spilled.

He stares the Medic speechlessly, but it's just become abundantly clear that it's not the Medic staring back at him.


End file.
